Lately, I’ve been wrestling with this one idea that keeps coming back to me like an old friend (or maybe a persistent mosquito): the idea of embracing imperfection—especially as someone with ADHD, but honestly, even if you don’t have it. Let’s be real, perfectionism is a shared affliction.
The Paralysis of Perfectionism
For the longest time, I believed that if I had to do something, it had to be perfect. Everything pixel-perfect, all boxes checked, all questions answered—before even thinking of starting. I would wait for certainty—certainty of success, certainty of knowledge, certainty of everything. And guess what? That’s when things became paralyzing. The moment something wasn’t clear, the moment there was any ambiguity, I’d freeze. It’s like my brain went: “Nope, not going there unless we have a roadmap signed by the universe.”
The Shift: Progress Over Perfect
But something’s changed recently. I’ve started to accept the imperfect. Actually, I’ve started to act despite the imperfection. Take my work, for instance. I used to get stuck in making everything pixel-perfect. The mantra “progress is better than perfect” was easy to chant but hard to follow. But now? I’m able to let go a bit, breathe a little, and just get things moving. Even when I know I’m not the best at cold messaging or sales calls, I still do them. Sure, the fear is still there—the rejection, the awkwardness, the possibility of failure—but it doesn’t paralyze me anymore.
Parenting and Letting Go
Maybe having a child has something to do with it. Before, I would look at a house and expect perfection—hidden wires, neat corners, everything just so. But now, practicality trumps perfection. I want things to be easy to fix, easy to use, easy to live with. If the wires are outside, so be it. If the pipes are visible, great—easy to repair. I still want good lighting, but if the ducts show, that’s okay. The bathroom doesn’t need to be a five-star suite; it just needs to be clean and spacious.
It’s funny how I used to obsess about aesthetics, but now, unless something adds value, I’m just not interested. The old furniture is sturdy, so it stays. I don’t mind it’s a little worn. It’s simple. It’s enough. And that’s a lesson that’s slowly becoming my new normal: simple is enough.
Acting Despite the Fear
I’ve realized that all of this—this newfound comfort with imperfection—was always there, in a way. The realization, the knowledge, the awareness. But knowing something and doing it are different beasts. Now I’m able to act despite knowing I’m not perfect. The fear of rejection or failure? It’s still there, but it doesn’t get to run the show anymore.
In Closing
I guess what I’m trying to say is: I’m learning to work with the imperfections. To start before it’s all sorted out. To act even when things are messy, ambiguous, or incomplete.